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A fine sycamore
with great leathery leaves
guarded the lane
to Warren Hill.
The pestilence struck swiftly.
one day Alice was in the fields,
the next burning with fever,
covered with boils.
In some places, I heard
they shut in families
sick and well together,
left them to die.
It was hot that August.
I had a long swim in the sea.
Was it the saly, then,
that saved me?
Eighty souls died in Mapperton
- Alice, my wife, being one.
We walked to Netherb'ry
with the bodies in shrouds.
Men met us with staves:
Davy, Ned, Robin, James.
They yelled: Away, go away.
Not in our churchyard.
So we turned round,
walked back to the village
to the lane with the tree,
put the bodies in carts. |
My daughter ran home
and brought rosemary, thyme,
sweet-scented box and garlic
to ward off the evil.
When we reached Warren Hill
we stopped and looked down
on that same church
from which we were banned.
We dug a great pit,
lowered our loved-ones.
Willian knelt,
and said a quick prayer.
Some call it the Posy Tree.
I walk past it each week
and stroke its rough bark
on my way to the grave.
Come Autumn
when the pestilence left,
the tree shed its fruit
like small wings
Now, in April,
there are pale yellow flowers
on slim stems,
below the opening leaves.
Thomas, the Farrier |
